


She'll Understand

by CaroltheQueen (always_1895)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Season/Series 07, Speculation, the kingdom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_1895/pseuds/CaroltheQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her blood turned to ice in her veins, stomach like lead; blood was rushing in her ears like white noise, drowning out everything except that man and that leather vest she would recognise anywhere, with dirty, scruffy angel wings adorning the back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Speculation for season 7: Carol is still at the Kingdom and Dwight rolls up wearing Daryl's vest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She'll Understand

She’d fallen into a resigned kind of attitude, a routine of sorts (though she loathed the thought of being in this place long enough to have a routine), and the people of the Kingdom no longer seemed to view her as a threat. Oh they watched her warily, she was still a stranger, despite having been vetoed by the “King.” And Morgan watched her too, as he always did, like she was a dichotomy he couldn’t wrap his head around. Carol had stopped trying to make him understand. It was futile. After all the list of people alive who really understood her (she hoped) was currently down to one.

If she never saw him again, in her mind he would always be alive. If she never saw him again it would destroy the last piece of her that wanted to love. But, as she kept telling herself, it was better than watching him die.

These people let her limp around the yard unconcerned and unknowing of the things she was capable of doing. Carol wasn’t wearing a mask anymore, but knew all too well that people weren’t threatened by what they saw when they looked at her. She’d used it to her advantage time and time again. And she had no choice but to trust them, they’d saved her life after all. Sensibly, rationally, she knew she was in no fit state to be doing anything but resting and recovering. She was already up and walking against the doctor’s advice. There was a Daryl in her head whose expression flitted between concerned anger at her stubbornness, and knowing pride at her strength. Maybe the others would flit around and fuss, but Daryl would simply hover close, always watching, ready if she needed him, but letting her do what she needed to.

Daryl had always known instinctively what she needed. Until she denied herself that. His understanding. His support. His care.

The day was overcast, a chill in the air, and Carol’s leg threatened to buckle as she walked. Her arm throbbed in its sling, but still she barely felt either wound in her heartache. The pain that went soul deep, a part of her very bones now, that she couldn’t keep at bay with cookies and cardigans and cigarettes anymore. The weight of all the things she’d done compounded now with fresh grief: of never hearing Judith’s tinkling laugh again; of not being there to see Carl continue to grow into the man Lori would be so, _so_ proud of; of never getting to meet Glenn and Maggie’s baby, or see the way Michonne saved Rick every single day. To never hold Daryl close and whisper gently in his ear how good a man he was, and just how _much_ he was loved. By everyone, but by none more than her.

Sasha’s fierceness, Abraham’s ridiculous humour, Tara’s kindness, Rosita’s passion that needed to stay alive. Aaron and Eric and the purity of their love. All of them, her family, the people she would kill for in a heartbeat. And the people she had to leave behind, so she couldn’t fail them.

Shouts and the heavy thud of running boots brought her back to the world. Something was happening. Several men wearing body armour, just like those that had found her and Morgan out on the road, were moving towards the main gates. In her periphery, Morgan appeared and she reluctantly turned to meet his eyes. _Trouble?_ People were talking in hushed voices around her, some grabbing children and retreating indoors. As if that would keep them safe. _Saviours,_ was the word that reached her ears, repeated again and again, and her wounds seemed to throb in reaction. Flashes of Paula screaming as the walker tore into her throat; more screams, of the men Carol had burned alive with the flick of a cigarette. The men on the road she’d riddled with bullets, and the man that had almost gifted her with the release of death.

The Kingdom was afraid, and Carol supposed they should be. She didn’t know if she cared enough to be afraid for herself. She was only afraid of what retribution the Saviours might bring down on her people for what they did at the compound. Maybe she should surrender herself to whomever had come knocking at the gates. Surrender and tell them the truth, that she had killed Paula and the others. From there maybe they would believe that the slaughter at the compound had been her doing too; her masterplan.

Rick thought they’d won, that he’d shot “Negan” in the head right in front of her (she remembered flinching, the heat of Daryl’s body as he stood protectively in front of her.), but there in her head Molly’s voice echoed: _We are all Negan._ Was Negan here at the Kingdom, now?

Carol started walking, trying to keep her gait even so as not to appear weak, gripping her knife at her hip with her good hand. Morgan caught her arm,

“What are you doing?”

“These people have tried to kill me.” She stated, stonily, “Three times. I want to know who the hell they are, and I want to know what _they_ know.”

“Then you of all people know they’re dangerous.”

“So am I.” And with that she turned around again. He let her go, but she could feel him following her at her back.

Carol didn’t know what she expected; a small army perhaps, armed to the teeth, something they couldn’t stand a chance against and would have no choice but to follow their orders. She didn’t expect a lone man being marched in by two of the guards who’d been on watch. Tall, skinny, stringy blonde hair, and that gaunt, haunted look that everybody knew these days, because they saw it when they looked in the mirror. As Carol grew nearer, she felt only contempt and a righteous demand for answers. Until the guards were patting him down, turning him this way and that between them, and she saw what the man was wearing. Everything ground to a halt.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins, stomach like lead; blood was rushing in her ears like white noise, drowning out everything except that man and that leather vest she would recognise anywhere, with dirty, scruffy angel wings adorning the back.

“Carol?” Morgan’s voice was far, _far_ away.

Carol’s heart was pounding ( _Daryl Daryl Daryl_ ), though she couldn’t hear the harsh gasps of air she was taking. A sob or a scream, or both, were crawling up her throat, desperate to tear free. Because she felt overwhelmed in a way that she couldn’t remember being for a very long time, but it felt like the Grove, like Terminus and seeing Daryl’s crossbow, and imagining it being pried from his cold, dead hands. Like being terrified for him when he went out to lead the megaheard away from Alexandria. This was like a hurricane blowing through all her defences, laying waste to the walls of apathy she’d surrounded herself with. It was a tidal wave of emotion and she was drowning. Anger, _furious_ anger. Agonising pain and grief and the _need_ for vengeance and _she had to do something, right now._ And if they killed her then, well, she’d see Daryl and her baby girl real soon.

By the time she was right in front of him, the guards had the man on his knees, hands behind his head, demanding to know why he was there, what Negan wanted, and they were so focused on their prisoner that no one noticed Carol, lightning fast, go for the gun at the guard’s hip. They turned on her immediately, yelling at her to drop the gun, but she already had it trained on the man that mattered, and Carol blocked out their panicked orders.

She simply stared for a moment and the man stared back, regarding her curiously. She felt his keen gaze as her eyes travelled over the vest, _Daryl’s_ vest. She knew it intimately, all the wear and tear, every place she’d had to patch up, the fraying edges of the wings under her fingertips. Every injury that had damaged the leather… except one through the shoulder that made her breath catch and made her want to break down in tears, missing Daryl like physical ache, a phantom limb.

“Where did you get that?” She demanded, voice forceful but steady for the moment. The man looked bewildered, but she pushed on before he could respond, “Is he dead??”

“Wha- Who? What the hell are you talkin’ about, lady -?”

Carol stepped closer, pushing her gun into his face, and finally the man flinched. Her entire body was trembling with barely contained fury and anguish.

“The man you took that vest from! _Did you kill him?_ ” She was yelling, and this time she couldn’t stop the emotion breaking her voice.

“What? No! No, he’s alive!” The man had finally caught on, nodding frantically. She didn’t believe him.

“You killed him, and you took that from his body!” Carol could hear her voice rising in hysteria but she didn’t care. The gun in her hand was shaking. “Did you let him Turn?” It came out strangled and she let the tears fall, unable to stop them. So much for not showing weakness.

Everyone seemed to have frozen around them, waiting to see what Carol would do. She appreciated them for not shooting her, at least.

The man spoke up again, determined, “Daryl is alive.” The fact that he knew Daryl’s name was the first thing that broke through her grief a little; made her think just maybe he could be telling the truth. “The Saviours have him. He ain’t in the best shape, but I swear to you, he’s alive.”

“Where is he?”

“Why, you gonna limp on in after him? One woman army? Pull him outta there?” _I’ve done it before,_ she wanted to say, but knew her injuries were far too extensive this time, despite the desperate pull she felt to just _go_ , to march into hell for him, whatever it took. 

“Who are you?” The man continued, scrutinising her, considering: the yelling, the devastation, the tears. She remained silent. He may have seen all that, but she hoped he could also see, without a doubt, that she would pull that trigger without a second thought if Daryl was dead. Then, “Are you Carol?” Her entire body jolted beyond her control, eyes wide, mind racing with all the possible ways or reasons Daryl might have said her name. Her shock, apparently, was easily visible. “Yeah, I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes.‘” He gave her a twitch of a smile that seemed, impossibly to hold some sympathy. Naturally she didn’t return it.

“See - and this is my proof that your man’s alive - me an’ Daryl, we’ve been doing some talking since I told him I want out. I gotta protect my girl. She’s all I got. He gets that.” Of course he would, Daryl protected his own, loyal to the point of insanity. “You know Daryl don’t say much, I don’t gotta tell you that, but when I told him what I was plannin’, that I would go to Rick with my plan, he says to me,” And here he made sure to hold her gaze, trying to impart the significance of his next words, “If I see Carol, I gotta tell her “Daryl saw a Cherokee rose in the burnt forest,” and she would know what it meant.”

With that all the strength left her body, she dropped the gun and turned away; brought a hand to her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle the sound of the sobs that seemed to erupt from her then; unstoppable, honest. The tears came in earnest, and for a moment, absurdly, she was glad that they blinded her to the faces all around that were no doubt staring at her. Because all she could think of was the last time Daryl reached out to her, the soft brush of callused fingers under her chin, his voice, rough but gentle in the way it only ever seemed to be with her: _you okay?_ Then his arms around her, the only place that ever felt safe anymore. The only place that grounded her and felt like some sort of home. Denim and leather under her hands and his hair tickling her nose. The smell of him: motor oil and leather and earth and sweat and _Daryl._

The guy was talking again, almost politely ignoring her tears, “And if you want the damn vest so much, here,” He shrugged out of it quickly and tossed the leather at her, “take it.” She caught it and hugged it to her without thinking. It didn’t smell like Daryl anymore.

She thought of the delicate bloom of a Cherokee rose petal between her thumb and forefinger, the impossibility of it thriving amongst nothing but ashes and dust. She knew; she understood: _we ain’t ashes._ Daryl had looked at that flower in the forest and seen _her._ Seen the both of them. Hope pushing past all the pain and death. And he was asking her to have hope now.

She’d told herself she had to live without them, and if it had been anyone else… Well, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t anyone else. It was Daryl, and that meant there was no choice.

“So…” She turned back to the man on his knees. She felt flayed, raw, and there were tears on her cheeks still. But her eyes were hard and defiant. “What’s the plan?”


End file.
